


You Are My One and Only

by deferney



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, I don't know how this happened, I'm so sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deferney/pseuds/deferney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was as direct as he could be without completely coming out, because saying the words, “I’m gay” felt too heavy for his fourteen year old shoulders. Maybe when they were broader, and stronger.</p><p>Lou deflated, glancing away from Harry’s strained expression, only to glance back. His eyes simulated those of someone watching a tennis match until finally Harry blurted out, “Well it’s not like you’re rod straight, just stop staring at me and say something!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are My One and Only

**You Are My One and Only**

  
      
 He met Louis when he was twelve. Louis was fourteen—“almost fifteen in five months.” A trail out by his house is where he often found himself taking walks when angry parents became too much, and there is where he found them: Louis, Niall and Liam.

After a long and uneventful day at school, he’d come home to an even longer night of arguing and door slamming and glares across the kitchen table, so after dinner he’d gone for a walk on the trail he’d built for himself over the previous months. Stressed moreso than usual, however, young Harry veered off the trail, brow furrowing when he heard what he thought were voices.

The voices brought him about fifty feet from his normal trail, to what appeared to be a meadow. In the meadow stood three boys kicking about a ball, laughing and talking amongst themselves: friends, obviously.

The idea of friends always fascinated Harry; he’d become so introverted over the past few years, his closest friend was a kid a grade above him, Zayn, who’d taken a liking to Harry after a particularly vicious game of dodgeball one day during recess. He didn’t really consider Zayn his friend, though; he kept all the bullies away and bought him food when he’d been too scared to enter the kitchen for his lunch that morning (the fights weren’t violent, but often times if he walked in on one he got caught in a conversation later that day about how ‘Mum and Dad really do love each other, it’s just a rough time right now’). They rarely said more than a handful of words to one another. Harry was pretty sure that didn’t make them friends.

“Oi, you twat!” A laughing, easy voice infiltrated Harry’s thoughts, and he glanced around to realize he’d somehow began spying on the three, crouched behind a thick bushel of roots gone wrong. “Why’ve you got such shit aim?!”

It was then that Harry realized the voice was getting louder, and, terrified for an inexplicable reason, he shot up. Briefly he made eye contact with a pair of surprised cerulean eyes before he sort of squawked, and then bolted from his spot. He ran—sprinted, really—back to his trail, landing on the slightly flatten grass in a heap of thin, gangly limbs, chest heaving. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, immediately regretting it, because as soon as he did another body landed with a harsh thud on the ground next to him.

Unsure, his green eyes slowly opened to reveal a thin, grinning face. “You know, mate,” the then nameless boy told him cheekily, “you’d’ve been a lot less creepy if you hadn’t run.”

And just like that, Louis Tomlinson was his first friend.

 

If there were one word Harry was forced to pick that was absolutely  _Louis_ , it would be “first.” Because that’s what Louis was for Harry: his first. His first friend when they were tweens. His first call when his parents got divorced three months after they met. Louis was his first footie captain. His first tutor when he almost failed English. The first person he ever allowed in his house. Louis was his first everything.

And, on his fourteenth birthday, his first kiss, too.

He hadn’t come out yet, but he was pretty sure he was gay. Louis had never talked about his sexual orientation, though there was no doubt that he “swung” both ways in the very least.

There’d been an extensive game of laser quest with all of his friends for his birthday (he now had three aside from Louis; Zayn’d slowly, but surely, snuck his way into Harry’s life and very firmly planted himself there—especially after making friends with the others), though they’d all gone home, save Louis. Over the past two years, the exception for Louis had become unspoken.

They sat in Harry’s living room, sprawled across his sofa, playing XBOX with the volume turned down, music blaring. Coke cans littered the table in front of them alongside an opened bag of crisps, left with only crumbs inside. Harry, in only his boxers and socks, kicked Louis’ shin when the elder began rocking the sofa with the shaking of his knee.

Louis’ brow furrowed then, but didn’t leave the screen as the two continued to battle each other in the game. “What was that for?”

“You’re moving the sofa,” Harry complained around a piece of mint gum.

The elder rolled his eyes, though stilled his movements, with a mumble of, “ ‘m only being nice because it’s your birthday, twat.”

After about twenty minutes of silent gaming, Harry’s mother entered the living room with a tired but fond expression. She ran her hands through her son’s curls, watching them play for but a second before kissing his forehead and bidding the two goodnight with a quick, “No fires, please, boys—and go to sleep before the sun rises!”

The thought of kissing had flightily passed Harry’s mind about a week ago while the two played footy in the meadow where they met, but he’d quickly shook himself of the thoughts because this was  _Louis_ for god’s sake—not some bloke he could experiment on. Louis  _meant something_.

Still, the idea of kissing blokes kind of fascinated Harry. Blokes didn’t wear shiny stuff on their lips, or worry about how their lips looked. Also, he began to notice he quite liked the way Louis was getting lazy with his shaving, and the stubble on his face was kind of hot. But  _he wouldn’t kiss Louis._

“Well that’s a bit offensive, mate,” Louis voice resounded off the walls of his brain, though it was slightly muffled by the music still booming from the surround sound stereo. Louis frowned at this, and stood, turning the music down to a slight hum. Once he was satisfied, he turned back to Harry expectantly.

“What is?” Harry asked, confused.

“That you won’t kiss me.” The tan, slim boy said simply. Harry felt his jaw drop a bit.

Normally the words would be said with a joking glint or a quirk at the corner of the boy’s thin, perfect lips. But there was nothing but a challenging, unrelenting stare that Harry received from his best friend.

Then Louis’ words hit him.

“Wait,  _what_?” Harry blurted through unsure, pink lips.

Louis shrugged, “You got all angsty and then just mumbled that you wouldn’t kiss me. Which I don’t understand, because I think I’d be a damned good kisser to experiment on if there’s some girl that’s caught your eye and you’re too dim to know how to kiss.”

“I won’t be kissing girls any time soon,” Harry snorted unthinkingly.

And then there was another thing Louis was: the first person he came out to.

He was a bit dense, however, and didn’t get it at first. “Aw don’t say that Curly,” Louis plopped down beside his friend, arm thrown carelessly across the back of the sofa. “I’m sure some girl will be entranced by your curls and you’ll run off into the sunset together.”

The younger shook said curls. “No, Lou,” and at the tone, Louis seemed to catch that what Harry was about to say wasn’t a joking matter. “I won’t…ever be kissing girls. Like, ever.”

It was as direct as he could be without completely coming out, because saying the words, “I’m gay” felt too heavy for his fourteen year old shoulders. Maybe when they were broader, and stronger.

Lou deflated, glancing away from Harry’s strained expression, only to glance back. His eyes simulated those of someone watching a tennis match until finally Harry blurted out, “Well it’s not like you’re rod straight, just stop staring at me and say something!”

At that Louis grinned, throwing his head back and laughing, loudly. Harry, worried his mother would hear, quickly slapped his hand over his friend’s mouth. Within seconds, a swift, warm, wet muscle swept across his hand, and he squeaked, ripping his hand away.

“That’s disgusting, Lou,” Harry told his friend, wiping his wet palm on the back of the sofa.

Louis still hadn’t said anything, though, even after Harry had sufficiently wiped away all germs. So, hesitantly, green eyes searched for blue ones, only to find them staring back in awe. “Holy shit, Hazza.”

A bark of laughter escaped Harry, then. And then he shrugged as if to say “Yeah, well…”

Then Louis said, “Well then I’m really offended that you wouldn’t kiss me.”

Harry didn’t say anything and instead opted to begin picking up their mess, jumping up and moving to the kitchen to put away unopened cans or place dirty plates in the dishwasher. His hands, which had suddenly shrunk in his tunnel vision, appeared to be shaking a bit as he ran water over a piece of nacho cheese stuck to one of the plates.

Then Louis—sixteen year old, lovely,  _terrifying_ Louis—reached his arms around Harry and shut off the water, gently placing the plate in the sink. He turned a wide eyed Harry, noting that the boy, who was almost half a foot shorter than him when they met, was now his height.  Teasingly, he said, “Am I not pretty enough for you? Or do you like them real rugged?”

The thought of Harry having a  _type_ kind of freaked him out in all honesty, mostly because he’d never thought about what kind of guy he’d like. He’d always just thought  _Louis_.

Without much thought, the words tumbled out of him, “No, of course not Lou, you’re perfect.”

At that, Louis smiled a sweet, knowing smile, and leaned forward until they were but a breath way. Harry could almost taste his friend’s lips; wisps of his breath enticed him sweetly.  Lips only the slightest bit parted, neither opened enough to do more than press, they met in a sweet, innocent kiss at 2 AM. It was only a few seconds before Louis pulled back and seemed to click back into himself, and he grinned, “See, Curly, I’m a damned good kisser.”

Both boys immediately reentered the normal universe, pretending as though something as weird as what had happened,  _hadn’t_  happened. The way Harry could barely mumble out a quiet, “Don’t be so full of yourself, mate,” didn’t convince anyone, though.

 

It was another six months before Louis became another one of Harry’s “firsts.” Louis was on the footy team for their school, and although Harry’d long since decided he much preferred playing football for fun and not to be yelled at, he went to all of Lou’s games. Because that’s what best friends do.

He sat beside Zayn, throwing popcorn at a particularly loud twelve year old girl at the bottom of the bleachers. Every time she shouted for the other team, they pelted her with the burnt pieces from the bottom of the bag. They’d gone through three bags within the first half hour, though she’d yet to notice them. The old guy in the wool jumper began looking about a bit suspiciously, though, so the two watched the game intently for the remaining first half.

Harry liked to watch Louis play soccer. He was agile and quick thinking, often three steps ahead of his opponents. Niall was the goal keeper—constantly fidgeting with his gloves as though staying too comfortable would screw up his catch. Liam was captain, which surprised no one that knew him, and was a damned good one at that. Together, with the rest of the team, they held their own against the others.

No one had spoken of the kiss between Louis and Harry, though Harry was positive Zayn and Liam knew because he’d told them, and Niall definitely knew because it would’ve been wrong to leave him out. Louis and Harry, the morning after, had continued on as though nothing had happened—and it’d remained the same way since.

It was exactly the kind of boost he’d been searching for, Harry figured. Since kissing Louis, he’d begun to notice other guys.

Well, not really, but he was figuring out what he liked and disliked about guys. He liked them a bit on the short side. He found he liked a rather nice bum. A good sense of humour—definitely willing to be a bit ridiculous. He liked someone kind hearted, but straightforward.  _Finding_  someone like that, though, was where Harry had problems.

“That forward keeps staring at you,” Zayn said, leaning back, arms sprawled across the empty bench behind them.

Harry, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, stared out at the field until he saw the boy Zayn mentioned. He was a bit taller than Harry fancied, but when he made eye contact and smiled cheekily before winking and being retaken by the game, Harry knew he was smitten.

The game continued on the same, with flirty glances and pointed looks, until Louis’ team won. Before even returning to the team to celebrate, the boy he’d been making eyes at climbed to the top of the bleachers, where he and Zayn. He stood in front of one shocked curly haired lad, and stuck his hand out with a smile, and a cheeky, “I really,  _really_  hope you’re gay, mate.”

That night, after the other boys’d left and it was just Lou and Harry sprawled in Louis’ room, Harry looked over at his best friend.

Louis was watching the show quite intently, hand shoved in a pack of Jammie Dodgers—permanently, it appeared.

“Hey Lou,” Harry finally stated after a few minutes of contemplative staring. Why was it such a big deal to tell Louis that he had a date? It’s not like Louis would care.

“I know,” Louis said quietly, yanking at a string at the hem of his shirt. “Riley wouldn’t shut up about the ‘fit lad with the curls’ after the game.”

Suddenly Harry disliked Riley. Where did he think it was okay to tell  _his_ best friend about  _his_ date?

Taking Harry’s silence as something else, worry maybe, Louis continued on in a sour tone, “You’ll never work.”

Offended, Harry’s brow furrowed, “Why the hell not?”

Louis’ blue eyes still wouldn’t meet his, and it was beginning to annoy him. He didn’t mention it, though, as Louis shrugged, “You’re too young.”

Indignant, Harry kicked Louis’ foot, “I am not! He’s your age, and we get on just fine.”

Louis rolled his eyes, “Riley wants more than friendship, Curly. He wants a good bonk. And that’s all.”

“And you’re sure of that?” Harry asked, annoyed and incredulous.

Now cerulean meets emerald, and somewhere a volcano erupts. “I’m positive,” Louis states firmly. “And you won’t be able to satisfy him. Too young—too little experience mate, sorry.”

The sounds of Harry slamming Louis’ room door, and then his house door, and the stomping of his footsteps as he walked home told him another thing Louis had become.

His first  _ex_ -friend.

 

It was another year, Harry was fifteen, when he spoke to Louis Tomlinson. Louis, in sixth form, had given up on trying to make up with Harry after he and Riley were together for four months officially.

Riley, to his defense, turned out to be the perfect boyfriend. He never forgot anniversaries, he treated Harry well, and he was very understanding with Harry’s fear of going far physically. Harry was positive he’d made a good choice.

Until he found Riley banging the girls’ footy captain.

That had been awkward on several levels.

So he’d wallowed in a heap of blankets on his couch with a box of the largest box of Mars Bars he could find, watching every David Tennant season of Doctor Who (he owned all four on DVD), until his mother burst into the house one day, yelling quite loudly.

“What are you on about?” He’d groaned into his pillow.

Then an achingly familiar body launched itself on his, and he squeaked.

“Hello love!”

Curls poked out from the blanket first, slowly revealing bloodshot green eyes. A cracked voice, “Louis?”

He grinned cheekily, “Told you Riley was a sod. But you never listen to the good ol’ Tommo, do ya?”

Harry, still a bit fuzzy brained, blinked, and then blurted out, “Louis?”

At this, Louis rolled his eyes and stood. The blanket was ripped away from Harry’s boxer-clad form, and as such Louis wrapped his arms around the younger’s torso, half carrying, half dragging him to the toilet. There, he turned on the cold water full blast, and shoved the nearly naked boy in it.

Said boy shrieked, “What’d you do that for?!”

Louis shut the door as he walked out, and called behind him, “Clean up! You look like shit! I’ll be taping your pathetic heart together while you fix everything else.”

So he showered, scrubbing away the grime of a week without a wash. When he walked out, a towel wrapped around his waist, he found an exhausted Louis sprawled across his bed, unconscious. Then he allowed himself a moment to reevaluate what used to be his best friend.

He still wore Toms, which didn’t surprise Harry in the slightest. His sweatpants were a bit worn for wear, though Harry’d never seen them before, and appeared too big as his feet were swallowed by them. His shirt was well fit, and showed off the well-developed muscles of a football devotee. There were bags under his eyes, hair astray and unwashed, stubble giving him a strangely rugged look.

But Louis wasn’t rugged. Louis was Louis.

“Had three five pages essays due today,” his mother’s voice told him, and he spun around to see her leaned against the doorjam, staring at Lou in a strange way. “He’s working full time, coaching a younger division footy team, playing for his own footy team, and writing three to four essays every week for school.”

She looked at her son now, and Harry was surprised by the sadness in her eyes. She continued on, “But he answered on the first ring, and the second I said ‘Harry’ he said ‘Can you come get me?’”

Anne sighed, “He’s a good lad, Harry. Don’t take him for granted.”

“I don’t, Mum,” he promised. “Ever.”

As she smiled and then exited, he realized that he’d already lied to his mother. Because he’d taken Louis for granted for years, and the realization shocked him.

He shut the door and threw on a pair of boxers and gym shorts, pulling up a swivel chair beside his bed and staring down at Louis for a good half hour in silence.

Finally, Louis’ eyes opened, staring up at Harry, unsurprised.

Harry sighed shakily. “I’m really sorry Louis. I should’ve listened to you. And I definitely shouldn’t have let something as stupid as Riley get in the way of our friendship. You mean so much more than any stupid relationship.”

Lou curled in on his side then, facing Harry with an evaluating expression. After a moment, he rolled on to his back, staring at Harry’s ceiling. “I was jealous.”

It took Harry a second to catch up. “What?”

The blue-eyed spoke easily, as though he wasn’t possibly throwing himself under a bus. “I’d been your friend for years and some idiot prances his way up some bleachers and gets a date like that? I was angry at you and him and the whole situation and I was jealous. I wouldn’t have said anything had it been any of our other friends.”

“But after we kissed,” Harry defended, “you never acted on it! How was I supposed to know it wasn’t just a one time thing?”

“Well it’s not like  _you_ ever acted on it,” Louis said pointedly.

Harry deflated then, admitting defeat. He looked down at his hands, unsure of where their conversation was going.

“Would you like to?” Louis asked. “Act on it, I mean.”

Harry, shocked and unsure, looked up at his ex-best friend.

“Uhm, y-yeah…Sure…Of course,” he sputtered.

Louis smiled, “Cool.”

And then Louis became his first best-friend-turned-ex-turned-boyfriend.

 

They were together as boyfriends for six years before things changed, and Louis was another first.

Harry, now twenty-one, was working part time at the local bakery and finishing up studying at Uni. Louis was teaching Theatre at a posh school down the road from where they lived in a rundown apartment. They were young, in love, and the happiest either’d been in either of their collective lives.

Christmas Eve the boys had their own get together with the rest of the lads. A two-foot high, covered in red garland and gold glitter because that’s all either boy had the patience to put on it, tree sat on the floor of their cramped living room, presents piled high around it as each person got one small thing for his or her friends.

Liam and Danielle, recently engaged, received lots of ‘honeymoon’ gag gifts (Louis’ favorite being a pair of underwear for Danielle that had a spoon on the crotch which read ‘Eat Me’ from Niall). Niall received Nando’s gift cards and a snapback from Danielle. Zayn, ever the artist, received mostly fancy paints, oils, or pencils from his friends.

They’d been sitting around, laughing and eating, for about an hour after opening presents, when Harry noticed it.

“Hey wait!” He cried. “There’s another box!”

He crawled around the tree, flicking the fuzzy ball from the top of his Santa hat, until he picked up a wooden.

When he tried to open it, he found it impossible, and looked at his friends confusedly. “Who’s this for? Or from?”

“It’s for you, Haz,” Lou rolled his eyes, sliding to sit beside his boyfriend. “Need help?”

He did, and nodded as such.

“It’s like a little compartment to hold stuff,” Louis explained as he pulled apart the pieces of the box that were fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. “Called a Japanese Puzzle Box. I figure you can keep all your little dorky keepsakes in it.”

“Thanks Lou,” he grinned at his boyfriend. As he watched the pieces slowly slip away until it would open, he quietly informed his boyfriend, “I’m going to have to write instructions on how to get it open though, because that’s really damned difficult. How’d you learn to do it so fast?”

“That’s what she said,” Niall laughed, and Harry glanced up to see his friends staring at them intently, anticipating something.

“Because, Harry,” Louis started, bringing Harry’s eyes back to the box. He gasped, smacking his hand over his mouth. “I had to find a way to get this in there.”

It sat delicately inside the opened box, perfectly round and gold and simple.

“That’s a wedding ring, Lou,” Harry stated lamely, as though his boyfriend was unaware.

Said boyfriend laughed loudly, picking up the ring. “Harry Styles,” he started, and already Harry knew he was going to end up a blubbering mess. “You’ve been my best friend for almost nine years, not counting that year we didn’t talk because you dated an idiot. You’ve helped me through my parents’ divorce, fights with my mum—you’ve helped me get through school, you’ve helped me find my dreams, you’ve made me happier than anyone or anything ever has on this planet. I can’t imagine not having something that let everyone else know just how happy you make me…Will you marry me?”

And six months later, Louis Tomlinson became Harry Styles’ first, and only, husband.

 

Harry Styles died at thirty-four.

It was nearing he and Louis’ anniversary, so he and their daughter Rebecca had been running errands all day, gathering all the right things for a special family dinner.

Rebecca, six years old, was chattering in the background, neither she nor father really listening to what she was saying. It didn’t bother Harry though; his daughter was a good girl, intelligent, and spent lots of time just thinking and talking out loud as a result.

The mother on the street perpendicular to the one which Harry’d been travelling on was not as calm when it came to her son’s insistent chattering.  Turned around, unaware of the stop sign she was running, she crashed into Harry’s car, sending them both spiraling.

He died instantly on impact. Their daughter Rebecca died in the hospital two days later.

At their funerals, Louis Tomlinson sat beside their four year old son, glaring angrily at Harry’s coffin. Liam, Danielle, Niall, and Zayn sat beside him, sitting quietly beside their friend. None of them cried.

“You asshole,” Louis said quietly, staring at the dark wood—desperately waiting for his husband and best friend to jump out of the coffin and laugh. “You always leave me first. Even when we played footy in that stupid meadow as kids, who always had to go home first? Styles. Who ran out the room when you were fifteen? Styles. Who freaked out when Rebecca wouldn’t stop crying when she was a baby? Styles. Who had to run out the door first thing that morning for no apparent reason? Styles.”

That night, he and Harry’s thirteen-year anniversary, he sat in his daughter’s room after he’d gotten Aiden to bed. Cross legged on the floor, he thought of how horrible it would be to clean this out within the next few weeks. He didn’t want to. But he had to. Life had to continue on—he had a son to look after.

He looked around the room as he stood, stopping when he noticed it.

It was plain white, and she’d had tons of those, so he tried to tell himself it was nothing and move on.

But he knew his husband’s clothes anywhere. Hell, half the time he’d bought the clothes. Rebecca, tall for her age, liked to wear Harry’s shirt to sleep in, because they smelled like her father and fit her like a dress.

And sure enough, as he picked it up and shook it out, he saw; the shirt belonged to Harry.

He sat cross legged again, the shirt in his hands. He started at it, unsure of what else to do anymore. Before, when he didn't know what to do, it was always easy just to tell Harry, and Harry made everything make sense.

Then, as he had that thought, Louis Tomlinson realized another first he was for his husband; he was Harry Styles’ first, and only, widower.

**_End._ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> All I can really say about this is I'm so very sorry and the title was inspired by Ed Sheeran's "Small Bump."


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